


General Protection Fault

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, First Times, M/M, Romance, Series: Technical Problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair decides to see what settling for second-best feels like.<br/>This story is a sequel to Illegal Operation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	General Protection Fault

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely positively made no attempt to alternate POV. But as you can see, Blair insisted it was his turn. 
> 
> My thanks to Tinn, as always, for her excellent advice, some of which, I confess, I don't always listen to.

## General Protection Fault

by Silk

Author's webpage: <http://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel/>

Author's disclaimer: All things Sentinel belong to PetFly and Paramount. Not me. I'm in it for love, not money. 

* * *

General Protection Fault 

By Silk 

One hundred fifty-three. 

That's how many messages overflowed my inbox. It might not seem like an awful lot to you, but believe me, when your usual mail consists of Dear Credit Card Holder letters and X-rated catalogs for sexual aids, you lower your expectations accordingly. 

It's not like I have a lot of room in that inbox anyway. You pay for cheap, you get cheap. The fact is, the inside of my box was so tight, I should have been fucking ecstatic that all those emails didn't crash the server. 

At first, it was a little overwhelming, all that unchained lust directed at one target. Me. But wading through all those messages was kinda like playing God. _I_ got to decide who stayed and who hit the high road. I was so in control. I was so- 

\--in over my fucking head. 

Jim's replacement was ready, willing, and able to take over. Of the 153 emails, 100 were from him. He was aggressive and he was persistent. He wanted me. Bad. 

Only one problem. He wasn't Jim. 

I should have known that would happen. I mean, how often does your heart's desire get granted? Would it have been too much to ask God, "Hey, Original Big Guy, while you're at it, could you make one of these emails from _Jim_?" 

Since the odds of Jim finding his way onto the Information Superhighway in his classic pick-up were next to zero, I forced myself to consider the alternative. He-Who-Was-Not-Jim. 

How bad could it be to check him out? It wasn't like I was making a lifelong commitment or anything. Maybe I should meet him. Someplace public. In case he was a stalker or a serial killer. Been there, done that. If David Lash wasn't good enough for me, Mr. I'm Not Jim wasn't even in the running. 

I _was_ curious, dammit. Curious enough to brave a date with this guy. His way with words was awkward but endearing. There was something compelling about his letters. I couldn't put my finger on what it was yet, but...maybe if I met him, it would be more obvious. 

I typed in his email address and wrinkled my nose. Was it a good thing or a bad thing that he used one of those free accounts? Maybe he wasn't a psycho. Just...frugal. 

Why on Earth was I making allowances for someone I had never even met? Jeez, you would think it was Jim or something. 

I chuckled to myself, remembering to keep it low, even though Jim wasn't home to hear me. He wouldn't know what to make of me, all hunched over my laptop like it was a living, breathing thing. Hell, who am I kidding? Jim wouldn't even notice. I think he's convinced that the laptop is a permanent appendage, Crazy-glued to the ends of my arms. 

So where should I meet, uh, what's his name again? Oh, yeah, cute screen name. Jack-of-All-Trades. Mmm, I wonder how many he can show me in one evening. 

Nahhh. Better to keep things safe. Clean. No sex on the first date. Even if he's half as sweet as he sounds. 

Heh, listen to me. In my quest for the perfect man, I seem to be downplaying fuckability for romance. Holy crap, if I start singing The Pina Colada Song, shoot me where I stand. 

I heave a huge sigh. There's only one man's arms that I want wrapped around me. The thought of actually finding someone who could make me forget Jim scares me. 

Doesn't mean it couldn't happen, though. 

* * *

I'm nervous. So fucking nervous I couldn't eat. Jim kept looking at me during dinner. Like he was accusing me of something. I asked him what was wrong, but he just kept playing with his food. Guess he wasn't all that hungry either. 

I feel like I'm cheating on him. Which is stupid. We've been a lot of things to each other, but we've never been lovers. 

He has no claim on me. That's the way he wants it. I guess. We've never even talked about going _there_. Much as I would like to. 

No, that's not true. I don't want to talk about it. Yeah, you heard me. As much as I love to talk, and words _are_ my friend, y'know, I don't want to talk about this. 

I just want to-I don't know-wake up and find myself in Jim's bed. I want to be kissed and cherished and loved within an inch of my life-and then start all over again. I want to-oh, fuck, I'm living The Pina Colada Song. 

I want forever. I want happily ever after. I want the fucking storybook ending. 

All this time, I thought of myself as primarily a scientist. Even after I fell in love with my subject. But who knew I had the longings of a romantic? Not me. No fucking way. 

I tear myself away from Jim's remarkably good impression of a hangdog look. He doesn't want me to go? It's just a date. A blind date. No dinner. Just coffee. Maybe dessert. 

Why doesn't he want me to go? 

Why don't I want to go? 

I make it as far as the door. My hand is actually on the knob when Jim's fingers close over my wrist. I look up, uncertain what to expect to see in those pale blue eyes. 

"Chief." Fuck. Jim just whispered my name. What does that mean? What does that fucking mean? 

I'm about to take a chance, confess everything, tell him how much I care when-his fingers slip off my wrist. I look down at them, dumbfounded, utterly speechless. 

He slides a hand under my jaw, and I think, Oh, God, this is it, he's going to kiss me. 

Instead he releases me, taking my hand in an avuncular manner, only to deposit something metallic, something silvery in the palm. 

"You forgot your keys." 

Shit. I blink back the sudden tears in my eyes. He mustn't see them. He wouldn't know what they mean. 

End 


End file.
